


House Rules

by HHarris



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2 Toppy Tops, Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Hair-pulling, John needs to sort some stuff out, Lad's Night Out, Lestrade takes the lead, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Voyeurism, bro job, for his own good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HHarris/pseuds/HHarris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their most recent “Lad’s Night Out” devolved into alcohol-fueled moaning about their sex lives (or lack thereof), Greg suggested he and John try a gentlemen’s club to blow off steam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/gifts).



> The day Rupert said Lestrade goes to sad gentlemen's clubs was the day I lost my mind. 
> 
> A belated birthday gift for PoppyAlexander, who ~~puts up with~~ encourages this madness.

“The rules are, no touching.”

“Sorry, what?”

“The dancers.” Greg shouted over the club’s thudding bassline and the roar of men’s voices. He wrapped an arm around John’s shoulder, in a gesture probably meant to be companionable, but ended up being mostly for his own support.

“House rules. No matter what, you can’t touch them. I mean they can touch YOU, but you can’t —“

“I’ve been to clubs before.” John said, and gave a tight nod to a clutch of girls beckoning from beyond the bar railing.

“Right.” Greg nodded soberly and downed the dregs of his beer. “When you were in the Navy.”

“It was the Army.”

“But you were a captain!”

John addressed the ceiling, “Unbelievable. Not a _ship’s captain_ , you idiot.” He considered Greg, who leaned heavily on the table, gut-laughing into his crossed arms. “I don’t know why you talked me into coming if you’re just going to wind me up all night. I’ve got an early shift —”

“John, I was joking. Relax.” Greg soothed. “Relax. I’m just trying to loosen you up, alright? Finish your beer. I’ll get us another.”

John cursed him under his breath and laughed (but obeyed), upending his pint glass before surrendering it. John licked messily at the the foam coating his upper lip.

”Right,” Greg murmured, eyes flicking up to meet John’s before settling back on his freshly licked lips. “Maybe something harder.”  

Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair, swaying a little as he stood unsupported. Righting himself, he exhaled though puffed cheeks, collected their empty glasses, then disappeared into the crowd surrounding the bar.

John shifted in his chair and avoided making eye contact with the unoccupied floor girls. This was really not his scene. He could hardly believe it was Greg’s scene, either. But when their most recent “Lad’s Night Out” had devolved into alcohol-fueled moaning about their sex lives (or lack thereof), Greg suggested they try a gentlemen’s club to blow off steam. It’d been nearly a decade since he’d been in one, but between this particular establishment’s sticky floors, persistent bass symphony and hopelessly outdated furniture, John guessed it barely qualified as a club for blokes, much less for gentlemen. On the plus side, it was within stumbling distance of home. So. There was that.

“Come here often?” Greg reappeared, grinning, and plunked two neat tumblers of amber liquid on the table, sloshing a bit over his thumb. John cocked an eyebrow at Greg, who slid him the slightly larger of the two glasses following a brief but exaggerated evaluation of their levels.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” John grumbled, taking a good nip from the nearly-full tumbler. He bared his teeth against the familiar sting of cheap whiskey.

“It was on special.”

“I can see why.” John took another shallow pull from the glass and an outburst of cheers from the far stage drew his attention.

The small platform was ringed with men and bathed in blue light. A brunette in a police hat (and not much else) stalked around a metal pole on impossibly high heels. She wore a studded belt slung low on her hips with a set of quick-release handcuffs clipped to the side, dangling by her thigh.

The dancer paced the stage, rocking her hips and gripping the pole above her head. She took a few large steps and kicked off into a controlled spin, hoisting herself high in the air. Upside down, she shook her cascading curls and bicycled her legs before diving back toward earth, a single tightly-clamped knee controlling her descent. The maneuver was met with approving cheers from the men followed by a small flutter of bills on the tip rail.

John made an effort to clap, and wondered only vaguely how her hat stayed on through the inversion, although too much of his forebrain was occupied by the ample curve of the dancer’s upended bottom to work out the probable mechanics of hair pins. He shifted in his chair, prick thickening as he imagined how her plump thighs might feel under his teeth and tongue instead. He then wondered in a detached way if he should feel embarrassed about being half hard in a strip club. (Although, it was rather the point of all this, wasn't it?)

John took another gulp from his glass and let the embers of the awful drink scorch his throat, settle low in his stomach and radiate heat through his chest. He turned to Greg intending to resume their conversation, but discovered he was entirely occupied with watching the performance instead, his expression dark and predatory.

John couldn’t help but stare at Greg: his mouth held open and lips shining, soft and whiskey-slick, bruised dark pink from where he’d been worrying them. Eyes lidded, close-trimmed nails grazing lazily trails over the front of his jeans.

_Christ_. John realized the low heat in his gut probably wasn’t from the whiskey. Or at least not entirely the whiskey.

This was new. This was _very_ new and fascinating. Bewitching. He’d never seen Greg like this (or considered that he wanted to). But even with a nearly naked woman bent double right in front of him, John found the small show that Greg was putting on much more enticing: His straight-laced companion absently stroking his swollen cock right in the middle of a club.

John bit down on a groan that snuck out anyway as a high whine. A hundred images flooded in of Greg in various states of undress, with women, men, both. Flesh upon flesh upon lips, hands, teeth and tongues —

_Fuck_. He was NOT doing this. Not now. John shifted lower in his chair and forcefully refocused his attention on the dancer, grateful there was a table between him, Greg and the stage.

He let his legs fall open, ground his palm against his cock for a modicum of relief. His knee pressed absently into what he initially thought was a table leg, but then (to his horror) knew to be Greg’s own knee, which jumped at the sudden contact.

But after a moment of held breath, John felt Greg settle back and return the gesture, pressing into him with small, fidgeting bobs before becoming more sure and sliding against the length of his leg with deliberate slowness.

_Well. This was a turn-up._

John sat rigid, watching the dancer perform some kind of acrobatic pilates in a sort of paralysis. Afraid to move. Afraid to stay still. His not-drunk-enough brain trying desperately to make sense of what his just-drunk-enough body had done. _What the fuck was he doing?_ Had he made a pass at Greg? (And even more puzzling: had he made one back?)

Loud cheers broke his attention. The dancer struck her final pose cuffed and kneeling as the spotlights dimmed, then shifted to another stage across the main floor. Greg stood and downed his drink, then gestured for John to do the same. John realized he’d stopped breathing.

“C’mon, were getting a dance.” John stared dumbly at Greg's standing erection, the long line of it painfully obvious through the heavy fabric of his jeans. John briefly allowed himself to consider how the flesh of Greg’s thigh might taste, how his muscles would shift and roll under his fingers.

“S’why we come here, innit?” Greg slurred, throwing John a wolfish grin. John bubbled nervous laughter, but finished his drink as he was told and gathered himself to stand.

It wasn’t hard to find a girl. By definition they are available. If Greg had a type, it was anybody's guess. Although since he hired the first one in his path, John guessed they had the same type: Available. The three of them snaked their way through the club toward the wall of heavy black doors at the back and pushed their way inside.

The private room was small but comfortable, with a central dancing platform edged by a curved leather couch. The dancer (did she say ‘Charlotte?’) adjusted her tits and her makeup in the stage mirror while the men settled on the couch.

“Remember,” Greg rumbled, settling in beside John, “the rules. No touching.”

Something in John’s chest fluttered. “The dancers,” he breathed.

Greg curled his lips and threw him a sidelong glance before letting his head loll back. He pressed his thigh firmly into John’s, a silent answer to his own yet unformed question.

"Yeah. The dancers." Greg removed his watch and smoothed his hand over the front of his jeans before settling it on his thigh.

_Nice, fitted jeans,_ John noticed, facing forward and slowing his breathing. _He'd worn his best jeans._ He was so, so fucked.

The music started, and the heavy bass vibrated the couch, sent shudders up John’s bollocks and arse. Charlotte(?) began to sway to the music, routine practiced but obviously disinterested. Still, the lithe, lace-covered line of her body was lovely in motion. This private dance was less acrobatic (but decidedly more erotic) than the stage show, the pole used more as a masturbatory prop than a piece of aerial equipment. Straddling the bar, she demonstrated, making a show of gliding up, then slowly down the length of the pole, hips rocking into it as she made utterly filthy, exaggerated expressions of pleasure, her darkly painted lips rounding into an open-jawed oval.

The probable combination of the dancer’s gliding and the hastily finished glass of cheap liquor helped still John’s sparking nerves. He reclined with his arm as well as his leg now pressed flush with Greg’s, relaxing into his touch, aware of the slow motion of Greg's fist over his cock. _What a fucking world,_  John mused, noticing the way the muscles in Greg’s forearm twisted as he palmed himself, shirt sleeves cuffed to the elbow. John could smell his cologne now (something metallic and cheap), and how it mingled with the scent of booze and cigarettes ghosting from his collar. Greg’s still-enticing mouth now panting and wet and slightly open. _Ah—_

Greg jutted his jaw then, sucked in air before letting go a small moan and allowing his head to fall backwards. His stomach clenched under his shirt, face flushed. John was painfully aware of his own cock pulsing against his trouser zip. 

This was getting dangerously close to not being a game any longer. If it even was one. It was getting hard to think. He needed contact. John’s hips began to rock involuntarily, seeking friction. _No touching._

Greg's hand trailed down his own thigh, then across to John's, kneading into his inner thigh with thick fingers before reaching down to palm his bollocks. _Fuck._ John let out a shaking breath and dropped his head back, bucked up into Greg's palm. _Yes, Jesus. Fuck. Yes, of course._ He pressed open his legs wider, giving him better access. Giving in to whatever the hell was happening here, these two desperate men putting on a show for a stripper. John had officially stopped giving a fuck.

Greg dragged his palm up and down the substantial length of John’s clothed cock, John grunting his approval and hissing at the pressure, rutting into Greg’s hand. Far away, John became faintly aware of the pop of a button, a zip, trousers and pants urged down and _— Oh, Fuck._ Thick moans bubbled low in his throat as a strong hand gripped his bare cock and pulled. Then pulled again. The room tipped sideways.

When John became aware of the room again, he cataloged the fact that the girl had by now removed most of her insubstantial clothing, revealing her small but well-formed breasts. She rolled her hips, watching with interest, imitating one of John’s low moans of pleasure before he went back under, overwhelmed by the sensation of strong hands on his prick shifting his foreskin down, swiping across the head to gather generous beads of precome, and jerking his length with a twisting wrist. John’s hips strained forward, seeking more. More pressure, more heat.

Sinking into sensation, John was only peripherally aware of the sofa shifting beside him before hot breath joined firm hands. _Was this real?_ John blinked his eyes open to find Greg kneeling before him, nuzzling his thigh with his nose and stubbled cheeks. Greg had his own cock out and was stroking himself, his tongue sweeping across his lips until they were dark and glistening wet.

John let out a shaking breath and reached forward to card his fingers through silver hair. Greg, with closed eyes, pressed into the touch. John’s right hand moved to join the left and he made two fists, gripping and pulling Greg’s head back until his jaw fell open and slack. Greg looked far away, his eyes glassy. John tugged again and a desperate little whine escaped Greg’s throat in response. John released him, and Greg lapped again at his lips, slicking them, and  tapped the head of John's cock to his bottom lip. Then, the silken slide of a tongue tip against John's dripping slit, Greg took a moment to enjoy John's taste before taking him fully inside his mouth.

John groaned against the hot, easy slide of Greg’s mouth down his length, tongue swirling on the underside of his cock before Greg backed off and pushed back down. Steadying John’s prick with one hand and jerking his own with the other, Greg assumed a steady pace, taking him all the way to the back of his throat, cheeks hollowed and saliva running. John’s hands rolled the base of Greg’s skull and he hissed approval in a near-constant stream of inarticulate, mumbled obscenities.

Greg was absolutely gorgeous like this: kneeling, pliant, eager to please. His chestnut eyes searching John’s, receptive to cues to speed up or swallow more, tricky tongue caressing and teasing. That mouth, those lips working along his length, and two-day stubble grazing his sensitive inner thighs.

John was struck with the urgent need for lips and teeth on his own, envious of Greg’s full mouth, breath puffing around John's cock and through his nose as he worked more quickly, his own hips beginning to stutter, mouth becoming less coordinated, urgent little grunts escaping through his nose, and his eyes becoming unfocused.

_No! No, no —_ John made a panicked noise in his throat and pulled Greg off, clattered to the floor, and claimed his mouth in an uncareful clash of lips and teeth, hand wound again in his hair. John tasted himself mingled with whiskey and cigarettes as they crash-kissed, battling for control, wrestling off their last bits of clothing and spilling toward the platform.

Greg’s head hit the stage apron as he hoisted John unceremoniously into his lap. Their cocks bobbed together, and Greg caught them both in one large hand before resuming his urgent rhythm.

John, with hands braced on either side of Greg’s head, moaned and keened, rutting into Greg’s fist and against his cock, completely lost in the feeling of slick, hot flesh gliding, the assault of lips and teeth and the scrape of stubble, both of them panting and growling and making desperate noises into each other's necks and ears and mouths.

John’s moans rose into a high whine and then devolved into uncoordinated shouting as he came, back curled and head rocking uselessly against Greg's shoulder. He shuddered through his orgasm to Greg’s murmured encouragement, his large hand splayed against the small of his back holding him steady. Just a few more quick pumps and Greg was coming too, clutching John tighter, painting both of their stomachs milky white with their mingled come.

Legs shaking, breath heaving, they spent a long moment just leaning together, reorienting themselves to the physical world. John rolled his head into the crook of Greg's neck and lipped absently at his collarbone. Greg pressed shut his eyes and was still, listening to the blood surging in his ears settle.

“OK?” Greg asked after a long moment.

“I think so.” John answered quietly.

“Can you stand?”

“No, not yet. Dizzy.”

“It’s alright,” Greg soothed and stroked a palm down John’s back. “Take your time.”

“Actually, you have about 3 minutes until a bouncer comes knocking. And from experience I recommend you be dressed when he does.”

Greg startled at the unfamiliar voice, and then remembered with a groan. “Charlotte.” He reached for his discarded undershirt to clean them with.

“Still here. Hi. You fellows are a sight.” Dressed again, the forgotten dancer sat in a chair by the stage, smiling vaguely and tapping on her phone.

Greg moved to sit up, but then paused, a look of horror and realization dawning on his face. He scrubbed both hands up the sides of his face to his forehead.

“Oh my god. Charlotte? I need you to tell me you didn’t film us on your phone.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> She totally did.


End file.
